Embracing the art of hygge in rural Scandinavia

The Nordic concept of hygge (cosiness, warmth, conviviality, celebrating the simple things – in case you’ve been living under a rock) has been pretty well thrashed since being ‘discovered’ by the rest of the world a while back, but before you roll your eyes and stop reading, think of the Scandinavians: for them it’s not a lifestyle-section trend but a way of life. I’ve always had a problem sitting still, but found it a cinch to ease into a slow-it-all-down mindset during the Scandinavian leg of our epic camper-van trip, especially when there was little to ‘do’ but hunker down and happily do nothing much. The cities of Scandinavia are unquestionably cool (and I’ll write about them in another post), but when I look back on the month or so we spent driving around Denmark, Sweden and Norway, it’s the memories of our time spent in the countryside, sitting by a fire doing very little, that are the most enduring.

Bornholm is a Danish island that sits in the Baltic Sea, closer to both Sweden above and Germany and Poland below than to Denmark. It’s one of those out-of-the-way islands that sometimes get set in a little box in the corner of the country map. It’s far from obscure though – it enjoys more hours of sunshine than mainland Denmark and holds a special place in the hearts of holidaying Danes. A magazine article that put Bornholm on our radar before setting out on our trip focused on the culinary scene and painted the island as a hyper-fertile fruit basket of the north and summer idyll. We didn’t need much convincing.

Our first taste of the Scandinavian seaside, waiting for the night ferry from Ystad in Sweden to Bornholm.

Bornholm is known as both Solskinsøen (the Sunshine Island) because of its weather and Klippeøen (the Rock Island) because of its geology; apart from the white-sand southern beaches, it’s mostly granite. We visited at the end of the summer season, so frustratingly, many of the restaurants I’d read about had recently closed for the long off-season (one day we’ll go back and eat at Kadeau), but we still had mostly fine weather during our three days there.

After our ferry arrived in the very early hours of the morning we drove straight to Allinge and our Airbnb summer house, Bolle’s Minde. The summer house (sommerhus in Danish) is as ubiquitous in parts of Scandinavia as the bach is in New Zealand. Echoing the bach-building trends of this country, there was a big sommerhus building boom during the 1960s and 70s; the Danish economy was growing and people began to build a second residence close to the sea to holiday in. In a country with under 6 million people, there are a whopping 200,000 sommerhus.

Our Bornholm home was fairly basic, but had the essentials of solid relaxation: hammock beds outside for the daytime, and a fireplace inside for the cooler evenings. Determined to go full hygge, we stocked up on supplies and spent our first day cosied-up inside, unnecessarily stoking the fire early in the afternoon, and making the most of having a full kitchen after weeks in the camper van by cooking a pork roast (flæskesteg, one of Denmark’s national dishes – always, always, cooked with the crackling on). With the aroma still mingling with the smoke from the fireplace, we finished off the meal with apple cake (æblekage) served with sun-kissed figs from the tree in the garden (a local variety known as Bornholm’s Diamond) and blackberries picked from the laden bushes in the lanes around the house: a forager’s dream.

A backyard of apple trees opening onto the seaside, spied on one of our walks.

Dragging ourselves away from cosy hibernation for a tour of the island the next day, we stopped in at the ruins of Hammershus, the largest medieval fortress in northern Europe, and the small towns of Sandvig, Rø, Gudhjem, Svaneke and Nexø, where hand-blown glass and ceramic studios rub shoulders with fish-smoking warehouses and their pyramid-shaped chimneys. We climbed the vast sand dunes on the southern coast and stopped in Tejn for a meal of ‘shrimps on toast’ at Skipperkroen, an old-school fisherman’s restaurant run by the endearingly surly henna-haired Pippi and groaning with nautical knick-knacks. Before heading back to the summer house for another evening by the fire, we stopped in at seaside hotel and bar Nordlandet to take in the views back towards Sweden and try the excellent craft beer by Penyllan, a local boutique brewery recently started by a friendly Aussie girl and her Danish partner.

The island’s roads were lined with small honesty-box produce stalls, with blueberries, figs and apples apparently the main crops at this time of year. Every little town has at least one bakery where you can pick up supplies for fika (coffee and cake), a tradition embraced with varying enthusiasm all over Scandinavia. ‘Fika’ is used as both a noun and a verb, and it didn’t take us long to happily give in to regular fikasugen (fika cravings) and make the question ‘Shall we fika?’ part of our daily routine. As Anna Brones and Johanna Kindvall point out in their book Fika: The art of the Swedish coffee break, it isn’t merely a coffee break, it’s a moment to slow down and appreciate the good things in life.

It was tempting to linger longer and slide further into the island way of life, but the road, and Sweden, was calling. Roxette serenaded us on the local radio as we drove north towards Stockholm, stopping in Kalmar for lunch. At a salad and sandwich bar, we ordered smørrebrød – an open sandwich of thinly sliced rye bread with various toppings, technically Danish but enjoyed more widely – and smörgåstårta – slices of bread layered with many fillings and garnishes, creating a creamy, salady layer cake. The idea of a savoury cake may not appeal to the uninitiated, but you’ve got to treat it like an elaborate club sandwich – it was delicious.

A little further north, after a detour to Örland island, we arrived in teeny-tiny Oknö. This really was a pick-a-random-spot-on-the-map location, a one-night stop chosen because it was in the excellently named Mönsterås region and because we liked the shape the finger-like shoots of land made on the map. It’s technically an island, one of many little dots of land covered in reeds and forest and connected by bridges and causeways. We arrived to a near-empty campsite and set up right by the water, enjoying an evening spent beside a bonfire on the beach. A morning sauna heightened the sense of retreat – exotic by New Zealand standards, but something we came across in a few of the campsites we stayed in.

(Curiously, the entry for Oknö on Wikipedia consists of only two lines, the second being a reference to Karolina Olsson, the ‘Sleeping Beauty of Oknö’, who apparently stayed asleep – or ‘hibernated’ – for 32 years.)

After a few days in Stockholm we drove west towards Norway, through vast swathes of sun-dappled pine and birch forest and small red-painted settlements. Dalarna County is the home of the hand-painted Dala horse, born in the region about 400 years ago when long winter nights by the fire would be whiled away carving wooden toys, and now a symbol of the whole of Sweden. It’s also home to the Mora knife, used all over Scandinavia and beyond in industry and outdoor pursuits, and by all of the region’s armies.

In Särna, we camped for a night at a lägerplats – a designated but very basic camping spot you pay a small fee to use (much like a DOC campsite in New Zealand). True wild camping is forbidden here, unlike the rest of Sweden, where the ‘freedom to roam’ policy is restricted only by the ‘do not disturb; do not destroy’ proviso. We cooked meatballs over the riverside fire, drank cups of tea with the addictive sötsak dammsugare we’d bought in the food market at Stockholm’s flagship IKEA store, and went to sleep early, only to be woken in the night by the unnerving sound of highway truckers using their horns to scare off wandering animals. Getting back behind the wheel in the morning, the reindeer sharing the road reminded us that this was the beginning of Sami country.

Knäckebröd and colourful cheese pastes (apparently very popular) displayed like art supplies in the supermarket.

A lagerplats in Särna, where we shared the campsite with reindeer.

After driving to the top of the nearby ski field (Salen hosts the start of Vasaloppet, the oldest, longest and largest cross-country ski race in the world) and deciding against a walk thanks to signs warning of roaming bears, we continued on route 66 into Norway. Some of the houses on this side of the border have grass and even pine trees on the roof and there are almost immediate differences in the landscape – the most obvious being the majestic fjords, which saw our journey punctuated by many short ferry rides and less-short tunnels (one, at 30km, is the longest road tunnel in the world and has a light show every 5km to ‘keep drivers awake and alert, avoid mental strain, and lift claustrophobia’ during the twenty-minute drive).

Having done little research on our route – preferring to find our way as we went – we were surprised to come across the serpentine Trollstigen (trolls’ ladder) road, whose eleven sharp hairpin bends follow a steep incline though the mountains. The Trollstigen viewing platforms are exceptionally well designed and built to blend in with the surroundings; some sections have been carved into the rock and others built onto sympathetically constructed stone walls. The dramatic viewpoints are well protected against the elements by steel and glass and from the top you enjoy a dizzying view all the way down the mountainside you’ve just climbed if coming from the east. (We came across examples of this superior public design all over Norway.) We spent that night in a campsite on the water’s edge in Geiranger, dwarfed by the emerald-green walls of the fjord and the huge, alien cruise ships lit by festoon lights.

Our log cabin in the woods in Tinn Austbygd in Telemark County provided the deepest sense of retreat. The settlement is about half an hour from Vemork, the site of the dramatic ‘heavy water sabotage’ – a series of actions undertaken by Norwegian saboteurs during World War II to prevent the occupying Germans from acquiring heavy water to produce nuclear weapons. We visited the museum at the imposing hydroelectric plant before driving north around Lake Tinn (Tinnsjå) to our cabin in the woods. The Airbnb listing describes it as a ‘fairytale place’, and it really does feel like something out of a Scandi children’s book: a log cabin with grass and small trees growing on the roof set in an untamed garden of blueberry and lingonberry bushes, with a white lavvu tent and an outdoor fire-heated bath tub beside the river at the far side of the property, all nestled so neatly in the surrounding forest that we drove right past it several times before finally spotting the roof peeking out among the trees.

There was an open fireplace inside and beside it a little stove, and a big fire pit outside. We alternated between the two, with it still warm enough in September to sit outside in the early evening. We baked cinnamon buns, picked berries and wild flowers, read books in the sun and took walks up river, across the moss-carpeted forest floor.

I didn’t know too much about Scandinavian food before our trip, having unfairly focused solely on cold pickled herring, which is in fact enjoyed all over Europe. But the Scandinavians certainly know how to bake, and their savoury dishes skilfully utilise quite subtle and unusual flavour combinations, especially when compared to more well-documented cuisines like Italian or French.

Seeking to emulate our Bornholm bliss, I made the Spiced Roast Pork Belly from Signe Johansen’s How to Hygge (not strictly a cookbook, but it has a great recipe section; it’s also endorsed by Nigel Slater so a guaranteed winner). A fairly straight-forward recipe in terms of cooking time and preparation, the special thing about it is the spice paste for marinating the meat: fennel seeds, allspice berries, star anise, coriander seeds, smoked sea salt and acacia honey (which I substituted with blue borage honey). It’s a thick, pungent paste, but mellows with cooking, and I ended up wishing I had used a bit more of it. To go with the pork, I made the Nordic Coleslaw, a fairly simple mix of shredded celeriac, white cabbage, fennel and carrots, with a complex and punchy green dressing of crème fraiche, lemon juice and zest, horseradish sauce, grainy mustard, cider vinegar, dill, coriander seeds, caraway seeds and spring onion. I added some thinly sliced radish for a colour pop. It was delicious – rich pork belly balanced with a crunchy fresh salad couldn’t be anything but – but we did miss the open fire and smugness of being on a little Danish island floating in the Baltic Sea.

A few days later, I made a buttery apple cake (æblekage in Danish; äppelkaka in Swedish) from The Nordic Cookbook by Magnus Nilsson. It needed almost an hour and a half in the oven rather than the 50 minutes the recipe called for, but it was a lovely golden buttery colour and rich without feeling too decadent. Next I’d like to try the cardamom and cinnamon buns, as well as some of the more unusual recipes.

Not many New Zealanders travel to Scandinavia, mainly I think because it’s seen as just too expensive. Admittedly we ate out in restaurants very little and drank out even less (those shrimps on toast in Bornholm were on par price-wise with a fine-dining restaurant in New Zealand, two small beers at one very beautiful bar we went to in Stockholm was a scandalous $50 and coffee was also pricey at upwards of NZ$8 for a small espresso), but more casual dining was not too eye-watering, and it is well worth scrimping a bit in order to admire the fjords of Norway, share a road with reindeer in Sweden’s Sami country and bask in the sun on a white-sand beach in Bornholm. In fact, the expense and need to budget for a trip there could encourage you to practise the hygge of 2017: ‘lagom’, or the perfect balance of not too little, not too much. And if you’ve brought a little hygge into your world already (or naturally embrace the cosy things in life and don’t need to be told how to do it, thank you very much), you’ll love hanging out in a region where it’s almost mandatory.

How to Hygge : the secrets of Nordic living by Signe Johansen (PanMacmillan, 2016); The Nordic Cookbook by Magnus Nilsson (Phaidon, 2015).

Lighter seafood chowder

This chowder is incredibly flavoursome and a lot lighter than traditional fish chowder. I’ve been curious to see whether removing dairy from my diet could have health benefits for me, so this is my milk- and cream-free take on this classic soup. I used homemade fish stock made from snapper frames, but you could use vegetable stock; it just might not be quite as tasty.

1 tbsp olive oil

1/2 leek, white and light green parts, finely chopped

1 large clove garlic, finely chopped

2 carrots, peeled and cut into rounds then quarters

2 potatoes, peeled and diced

1 tbsp flour

pinch of paprika

pinch of chilli flakes

1 litre fish stock

1/3 can coconut cream

200–250g firm white fish (I used tarakihi), diced

150g raw prawns or prawn meat

zest and juice of 1 lemon

crispy friend pancetta, to garnish

fennel fronds, parsley or dill fronds, to garnish

Heat olive oil in a large heavy-based saucepan over a medium heat. Add leek and cook for 4–5 minutes, until starting to soften. Add garlic and carrots and cook for a further 2 minutes, taking care to not let the garlic burn.

Add potatoes, flour, paprika and chilli flakes and stir until vegetables are lightly coated in flour.

Add fish stock. Scoop the cream from the top of the can of coconut cream and stir this into the mix. I used about 2 tablespoons of it, but you can vary this depending on how creamy you want your chowder, or how much coconut flavour you want. Simmer for 10–15 minutes, or until potatoes and carrots are cooked through.

Add fish and prawns and cook for 3–4 minutes, until just cooked through. Take care not to overcook.

Stir through lemon zest and juice.

Divide between bowls and garnish with crispy pancetta and fennel, parsley or dill.

Lisbon: Recipes from the Heart of Portugal

300x600I actually remember where I was the first time I tried pastéis de nata. While still at school I got a job at Pandoro Panetteria, which at the time was the artisan bakery/café in Auckland and one of the only places to buy proper sourdough and other European breads, pastries and cakes (it started as a weekend job which on graduation turned full-time and managerial, fully sucking me into the hospitality world for a while). I haven’t been in there for years – as anyone who has worked in cafés or restaurants knows, you get to the stage where you can’t face the food served there, and I believe it went downhill after the original owners sold the business, too – but my time at Pandoro was a culinary education and it was there that I was introduced to the pillowy, crispy yet chewy, creamy and not-too-sweet Portuguese custard tart.

I have to admit I only picked up this cookbook because we have friends who are on holiday in Portugal and their foodgrams have been making me hunger for the perfect pastéis de nata. I knew that they were quite a palaver to make, but I wasn’t expecting two whole pages of recipe method, all tightly packed text in paragraph style rather than numbered, or at least spaced, steps. Too much effort for this busy Saturday.

Instead, because we were going to an ‘Indian subcontinent’ potluck dinner*, I made the Caril de Peixe à Moda de Goa, or Goan Fish Curry. Goa was a Portuguese colony for a few hundred years until as recently as the 1960s, and a lot of cultural and culinary exchange took place between the two places, so this collection includes quite a few Indian dishes including spicy onion bhaji and samosa alongside other curries.

The fish curry is straightforward but a little fiddly (though not as much as the tarts); instead of using coconut milk, you combine 500g desiccated coconut with the spices (freshly ground black pepper corns, coriander and cumin seeds and turmeric powder and dried chillies) and a little water to make a paste, then blitz it in batches in a blender. You then squeeze out the liquid in batches, and discard the solids. It always feels like a waste to me to discard ingredients (especially $5 worth of coconut), and I was tempted to sneak some of the spice-infused coconut into the sauce, but the fact that the recipe tells you to strain the liquid into the saucepan to further separate out any solids made me think that perhaps the coconut would make the sauce gritty, so I did as I was told for once.

Once this liquid, with the addition of grated onion, has cooked out for 15 minutes, you add the seafood. I stuck to the recipe, using prawns and firm white fish (snapper) but I imagine it would be good with whatever seafood you had on hand. I added some red rice to the basmati for interest, and topped it with fried curry leaves and mustard seeds sizzled in coconut oil until they started to pop. Just before serving, I sprinkled lots of coriander over the curry.

You could just use coconut milk for this recipe, but making it the traditional Goan way was kind of fun – I enjoy recipes that involve getting my hands dirty, and this one certainly delivered, with my hands stained yellow from the turmeric. Unfortunately the book, and my whole kitchen, got rather dirty too. This method does result in a slightly watery sauce, so if you want a richer result, coconut milk or cream may be the way to go. I often find Indian food too rich and filling, but this curry is very light and doesn’t overpower the taste of the seafood so I’d leave it as is.

I haven’t been to Portugal and my grasp of the geography, culture and cuisine is pretty sketchy really – for some reason it’s never been top of my wanderlust list but there’s a page of ‘Places to visit’ (all food-related) at the back of the book so that could be a handy reference if you were planning a trip, and like me, base holidays largely around what’s good to eat. The colourful illustrative cover and chapter openers and luscious food and location photography are a welcome burst of sunshine in midwinter Auckland; maybe as I try more of the recipes it will inspire me to visit Portugal next time I’m in that part of the world. And I might just be tempted to invest the time into making custard tarts.

Lisbon: Recipes from the Heart of Portugal by Rebecca Seal (Hardie Grant, 2017)

*Winter is a time for cosy dinner parties, and I love a good potluck, especially if the host picks a theme that brings you out of your usual cooking repertoire. I don’t cook a lot of Indian food at home, so it was great to sample everyone’s offerings, which ranged from a hearty lamb curry to a highly fragrant vege curry and little stuffed, spiced pancakes.